Attitude Adjustment

Maybe all I needed was vitamins.

Or caffeine, fresh air and sunshine, and something to do.

Whatever it was, I have the utterly relieving feeling that this bout of homesickness - by far the worst yet - is on its way out.

I worked for a catering company today, so it was good to be busy. I scoured pots, made coffees, chatted with customers, balanced plates on my arms, fried chips, made sandwiches, and turned a hellish kitchen into twinkling cleanness. The owner of the business came in, looked at me and said, "WOW. Good job," and I beamed with pride. Then he said, "can you come in again tomorrow? And are you busy on Saturday?"

At 4:00, I was walking down the street downtown and the sun was out. I found myself looking at the city again, with "new eyes," I guess, and got excited at the idea of creating a photo-journal of the Real Wellington. See, I have taken pictures of Wellington, but I confined myself almost exclusively to the tourist sectors - namely, Cuba Street and the Civic Square. Well, the city is much bigger than that, and it's grittier too.

There is an amazing graffiti mural of strange creatures on the side of a building - a crocodile shyly holding its lower jaw - overlooking an empty lot, with weeds growing from uneven concrete slabs.

I pass an old pub on Willis Street made of brick, with dark iron-paned windows melting with age.

There is an intricate iron gate, somehow lacy and spiky at the same time, that opens to the entrance of Central Park. Pigeons and sparrows forage together at its base - they scatter as I come closer.

I see a cathedral that looks forbidding and incandescent, its spires next to an enormous billboard advertising Malibu rum.

I catch sight of myself in a window - canvas sneakers, skinny jeans, black wool coat, dark-rimmed glasses and a knitted beanie - and, besides the accumulated grease under my fingernails, feel entirely good about myself. I did something today.

And I have something to do tomorrow.

You know what I think it is? To be happy, I have to feel good about myself - I need to feel useful. I need to have goals that I am working towards, to have a sense of accomplishment. It's not the boredom that gets me, in the end, so much as that I can't stand feeling useless. While I was in school, I always had something to do - I had projects, homework, tasks and milestones. While I was working, I kept myself busy with goals at work, saving money, spending time with friends - and I had New Zealand to look forward to.

While in New Zealand, I have been happiest when I'm in a new place, traveling or working - most recently, working to save up for Asia.

When Asia fell through it rocked me. Suddenly facing months in New Zealand without any goals seemed so daunting. The months seemed so much longer, laid out in front of me like a flat, straight road.

I know now how trivial it is really - whether or not I go to Asia. But I had my heart set on it. I was going to ride an elephant! More importantly, it was my goal. When I could no longer reach it, it seemed like the carpet was jerked from under my feet.

From there, some things piled up on me.

For one, my birthday sucked... and I spent a good deal of time feeling sorry for myself about it. I now realize - as was kindly pointed out to me - that I am lucky as hell in every respect, and don't have many reasons to complain. For another, each and every fellow backpacker I'd met, connected with, spent time with, suddenly left New Zealand, within about a week, to go either to Australia or home. Simultaneously, the weather turned quite suddenly cold - and although I love curling up by the fire on a cold day, I have noticed that there are not many warm places here in New Zealand. Most homes are built without insulation, double-paned windows, or heaters - and having cold hands and feet all day can make a person cranky.

Excuses, excuses.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I found myself looking around and feeling disappointed. I had built up New Zealand so much, looked forward to it for so long. Halfway through, more than halfway, I can see the end. It's almost over. My dream seemed suddenly like so much vapor: the gap between imagination and reality. Like the letdown after the Christmas presents when you're little. Even if you got everything you wanted, the anticipation was over, leaving you feeling dissatisfied.


But there is always something else to look forward to. There's always another adventure: Tonga, maybe, but if not, a job - an opportunity to meet new people, do something different.

And there is still some of New Zealand we haven't seen. On the east coast, there are Hot Water Beaches where you can dig your own spa. And we haven't seen Tongariro National Park, New Zealand's most-photographed and most famous sight. We've only spent one week in Auckland, and I think that I could spend more time there and try my luck.

Regardless of how I spend the next four months, nothing can sully the time I've spent here.

I've fallen in love with the countryside, I've been charmed by the people, I've been welcomed by family and helped by strangers. I've seen New Zealand from the Cape to the Bluff, lived in a small town and in the capital city.

I kayaked in the Bay of Islands, and spent four days in the bush in the far North. I saw green, steaming lakes in Rotorua, and worked at a carnival in Hawke's Bay. I saw a rare bird colony at Cape Kidnappers, camped in the Abel Tasman, and saved John from a fur seal at Farewell Spit. I saw glaciers and beaches, tree ferns and penguins, worked under the sun in the vineyard, and connected with people from around the world in a factory. I met a distant family for the first time, and was welcomed into their homes as one of them.

And now, here I am. Walking through Wellington, looking at things around me again.

I really don't know what's changed - the weather, the job, or what - but I am grateful for the attitude adjustment.

I don't like being negative, and I'm going to stop. Instead I'm going to be grateful for what's happened and hopeful for what's to come. I'm going to feel proud of myself for what I've done so far, and I'm going to scold myself for losing my grip.

It's definitely time to move on.

Back in Wellington

The southerly storm blowing in from Antarctica is strong enough to rip clothing off the line, rattle the windows, spray salt water up the mountain; it's strong enough to knock over the wheelbarrow and push it across the yard, and strong enough to take the gutter off the house. 90 km/h winds have been blowing for days, howling through the buildings, whistling in through the windows: hurricane weather. They don't call it Windy Welly for nothing.

We're living on a cliff that overlooks the ocean, and through the rain-drizzled windowpanes, I can see white caps on the steely water, all the way out to the deep blue drop-off that marks the edge of the marine reserve. James and Jeannine have been kind enough to rent out their spare room to us for cheap: it's simple and cozy, with extra blankets for the cold nights.

In all of this weather I head out, resumes tucked under my arm, to pound the pavement in search of a job. I try everywhere: grocery stores, video stores, and book stores; pubs, cafes, and restaurants, movie theaters and employment agencies. Twenty C.V.s and a week later, no bites yet.

This situation is eerily reminiscent of my earlier time in Wellington. John works while I seem to float around the city, seeking employment or at least entertainment, feeling a little useless and a little homesick. Our dream of making it to Asia recedes as our savings evaporate.

In my heart, I decide to go home. I e-mail Paul, my travel agent back home, and ask him how much it would cost to change my ticket. I tell him that if I could go home tomorrow for $500 or less, I wouldn't hesitate - and it's true. There is nothing for me here. I have seen most of the country, I've met some great people and I've had a good time, but all of the other backpackers I know have left, with the season and with the end of work. I've got no prospects and I'm running out of money. Maybe it's time to cut and run.

In my heart, I want to settle for awhile. I want my home; want to surround myself with my things, put my clothes in a drawer and sit on the edge of my bed, see photographs of people I recognize on the shelf.

I have been living out of a backpack, on one pair of shoes, for so long that it seems like a great luxury, that memory of feeling my clothes hanging up in a closet - skirts, dresses, blouses, sweaters. Do I still own all that stuff? Drawers full of clean underwear and socks? Stockings? Gloves? A purse? A belt?

John and I discuss the possibility of going home. He would rather stay, and in fact, I realize that if I went home without him, he would probably be able to make it to Asia. I tell him that everything I want is back home: friends, family, work, weather. I tell him that I fall asleep each night visiting, in my mind's eye, familiar street corners of home.

It's not a sad thing. It feels more like a calming ritual, but I find myself doing it more and more, like when I look up from the book I'm reading, or when I look out the window on the bus. It's weird. I imagine the round sculpted trees that line Government Street - remember the smell of waffle cones and chocolate. I can see the details: the shopfronts, windows, alcoves and facades, the little lights in the tree-branches, the brick sidewalks (speckled with gum), the crowds, the silent well-dressed man who always stands on the corner. Or I can conjure up another corner just as easily. I know it all by heart - the whole city.

John reminds me of our plans to go to Tonga, for the work-for-accommodation gig. I'm skeptical. Somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific, between Fiji, Samoa, and the Cook Islands, Tonga just seems ridiculously far away. He shows me the computer: round-trip tickets, with baggage, fees, and taxes, would cost us a little less than $350 each. I can feel myself becoming hopeful, although I still don't believe it will happen.

In stubborn desperation, he phones Sven, the owner of the resort in Tonga. After a ten-minute chat, John has made arrangements with him to come and work for two or three weeks, beginning in mid-May. There will be another couple working there as well. We will be given our own room and breakfast, in exchange for four hours of gardening each morning. The rest of the afternoon we'll have off, to explore the island. Sven says he has bicycles and snorkeling gear we're welcome to borrow.

All of this means that we'll have too buy our tickets to Tonga and save up enough money to feed ourselves for several weeks. It means that a trip to Asia is almost certainly out of the question, at least this year. It might even be some kind of scam. But it might also give us the opportunity to have an adventure while we can. And, I admit, as I look out the window at the storm - the sideways hail and gale-force wind - a peaceful beach in the South Pacific sounds like paradise right about now.

I still search for work, a little desperately. We haven't bought the plane tickets yet, but any dollar I can earn will help. After two or three weeks in Tonga, we will end up in Auckland, almost certainly worse off than we are now: neither of us will have jobs, we won't have a place to stay, and we'll have even less money. There is a chance we could come back to Wellington, but who knows?

One thing I'm sure of, suddenly, with John's arms around me: no matter what, everything is going to be okay.

Arthur's Pass

We drive south from Westport, towards the Punakaiki - The Pancake Rocks.

Over the years, the ocean has shaped the limestone on the coast into stacks, and it's become one of New Zealand's most-visited sights - similar, I suppose, to the Giant's Causeway in Ireland. Rock walls and walkways have been built, and we take a 20-minute walk in the rain to check out the famous coast.

It is geologically interesting, but the rest of the coast is just as interesting, I think. Palm trees and New Zealand flax lead into the Pacific, which breaks up the land. The Lonely Planet reckons this drive to be one of the top ten road trips in the world - and I can see why.

Finally, we pass Greymouth and head east, towards Arthur's Pass. This is meant to be one of the best train trips in the world, but the rental car is much cheaper. It's my turn to drive though, and I have fun, winding through impressive mountains, over slopes and gentle curves, and on the other side, too. It is only the second time I've driven on the left.

We arrive in Arthur's Pass as it is getting dark, and starting to rain.

We get beds in the YHA Hostel, which is very nice actually, and since it's the slow season, we have the dorm room to ourselves. As temperatures drop outside, we spend the night with the heater on, sitting on the top bunk, drinking red wine and playing trivial pursuit. We cheat a little, and get uncontrollable bouts of the giggles, making sleep impossible.

Next morning dawns bright and beautiful. In the sunny kitchen, we make a big breakfast and pack a lunch, then pack up the car and head into the hills.

John practically drags me up the mountain. We cross several cold streams, and climb up several rock faces as well. Mostly, the track is a vertical climb over loose stones, with exposed tree roots serving for handholds. We can hear one bird singing far away.

The sunshine is hot above the tree line, and we can see some magnificent views from the summit of Avalanche Peak. John whistles to himself, and attracts a female bell-bird, who follows him curiously for awhile, getting daringly close and peering at him critically from one black eye.

In the afternoon, we drive to the east coast, all the way to Kaikoura - about five hours. The rain and the fog hit us north of Christchurch. We listen to music and the sound of the windshield wipers smearing greasy water over the windscreen.

By the time we arrive, we can hardly see through all the water. In the darkness, little rivers splash into the gutters throughout the town. We book two nights in a big hostel with a hot tub and wood fireplaces, and I hope to see an albatross. Unfortunately, the next day we can't see a thing. Here is a picture of me at the town lookout, which overlooked nothing, as far as we could tell.

On the Sunday, our time on the South Island comes to an end. We say a final goodbye to Donelle, drop off the car, and get on the ferry to Wellington.

I may have a catering job the following weekend, and John will start work on Tuesday. After that, who knows?

Kiwi Cousins, Continued

On Friday night - our last night in Blenheim - we decide to have a party.

It's a bit last-minute, but we call everyone we know, and everybody brings somebody (or in some cases, four or five people). Soon, our little flat is full of people, mixing cocktails and pouring wine, introducing themselves to strangers, and having those conversations that strangers have. Those of us who've been here long enough to spend time reminiscing, have those conversations that friends parting ways have.

A little past midnight, we walk downtown to go dancing.

John, who isn't feeling well, stays behind, and for once, I have the intoxicating feeling of being the center of attention. Everyone wants to buy me a drink, as if to make up for my birthday party, and I feel loved and powerful - if briefly. I charm the man at the karaoke booth, who turns out to be the owner of the bar. He puts my name on the top of the list and offers me a job on the spot.

Donelle picks us up the next morning. I have that incredible feeling of being completely packed and of owning almost nothing. My entire life is zipped into place and fits onto my back. It's actually pretty light.

My iconic badges of poverty turn out to be my duct-taped-together glasses (five years old) and my grumpy, yawning shoes, which I have trampled on every day for over a year. Feeling casually extravagant, I purchase two new pairs of glasses and new shoes before leaving town. I ditch a pair of shorts and several T-shirts, because winter is coming.

With enough money, everything I own becomes dispensable.

We drive south through bare yellow hills, which Donelle says were burned by the Maori to chase out the Moas, which they hunted to extinction a few hundred years ago. Moas were enormous, flightless birds, like ostriches, but much taller than me, and some as tall as elephants. You can see their bones in the museum.

Donelle explains that it's pretty slow at the motel, so she gives us our own room! Luxury! We have our own bathroom, kitchen, and living room, electric blankets, flat-screen television. For the longest time, we wander here and there, touching everything. There is a newspaper on the table, which I unfold as I make tea. John turns on the television, putting up his feet with a sigh of contentment.

That night, Donelle makes us salmon tapas, with fresh-baked bread and blue cheese, as well as lasagna and salad, and we drink sauvingon blanc and play backgammon. She tells us that her neighbor is looking for workers to pick saffron, if we're interested. Of course, we jump on the opportunity to make some extra cash.

That night, I sleep like the dead. The bed is already warm from the electric blanket, the covers are heavy, and the pillows and the mattress are perfect - not too soft.

The next day, Sunday, we relax. In the afternoon, we watch a Canucks game on the internet, and I talk to my mother on the phone for the first time in two or three months. Donelle talks to me about my family, my grandparents. We tell stories. I begin to feel less homesick. 

Early the next morning, we drive to the saffron farm. On the way, I receive a phone call from Patrick, the manager at a book store I've applied to. He is interested to chat with me when I arrive in Wellington, and I feel excitement. Imagine! A book store job!

The owner of the saffron farm is named Kate, and she becomes my hero instantly. She is slim and lively, with short gray hair and big rubber boots. Her dog tags along after her.

The paddock of saffron looks lovely in the morning light. There is a purple haze of crocuses, deep in the long grasses, which are filmed with silver dew. As the sun's angle lifts, the flowers open, and hundreds of humming honeybees accompany our work. We stoop to pick the flowers and drop them into buckets, talking in low voices, as though not to disturb the peace of the woods, the birds in the distance. Often, I have to shake a dozing honeybee from the mouth of a flower, and it flies of agreeably, landing in the the next one. Sometimes, the high-pitched hum of bees is punctuated by the diesel drone of an enormous, black-haired bumblebee, come for his share.

When all of the flowers have been gathered, we stop for coffee in the farmhouse, where Kate serves apple cake and biscuits. Then it's time for Processing. We open each damp flower and pull out the three red threads, or filaments, inside. We lay the filaments onto round paper for dehydrating, and gather the crumpled purple flower petals for compost. The women chat together, and the day passes. At one point, a sprightly fantail flies into the farmhouse, looking for insects. He chats to us as he lands here and there, his long tail seeming to throw him off-balance as he hops around cheerfully.

After two days of work, Kate pays us $300 and wishes us luck, telling us we are welcome to stop by anytime.

We plan to drive around the south island for a few days, mainly so that I can meet my family in Westport. Finally then, on Wednesday, Donelle drives us to Picton, so that we can pick up the car we've hired. On the way, Donelle points out the hillsides where she used to ride her horse as a kid, the house of an old friend. We pick up the car without a hitch, say goodbye, and drive west, through autumn scenery.

At first, the landscape is golden. The sun has the quality of early morning, pale and yellow, slanting from low in the sky. The grapevines have turned a deep umber, and the tall poplars are yellow. As we come further west, the road begins to wind through tall hills, which become more and more green. Eventually, we are driving past walls of ferns, and through tunnels of dripping foliage. We pass wide river beds, long bridges over exposed rocks, and tunnels under the mountains.

Finally, we hit the coast. We find the Eriksen's address in Westport, and stop outside their house. Again, like when I met Donelle, I feel a little nervous. But, again, there is no need. Jo, Barry, and Asha welcome us with generosity and love. By the time we arrive, they've made a beautiful dinner, complete with New Zealand food like whitebait and pavlova. Asha's little girls are perfect hosts, showing us our room, bringing us drinks, and squirming onto our laps to get a closer look at us.

We talk until late into the night. Jo makes us cups of hot tea, and we curl up by the fire, talking about Canada, family, and their lives in New Zealand. In the space of a few hours, strangers become family.

They see us off the next morning, with hugs and well-wishes. They hardly accept our thanks - instead, they thank us for coming and tell us how glad they are to have met us. They talk about wanting to visit Canada sometime soon.

I feel lucky to have such a welcoming family here, so far from my home.

By lunchtime, we're heading south along the coast, towards the Punkakaiki and Arthur's Pass.

What Comes Next

If you are planning to travel to New Zealand, you should know that there is not much free WiFi available anywhere in the country. I used to find that unusual, but now I double-guess myself. Is free WiFi normally available in coffee shops around North America? Well, regardless, if you are expecting to be able to check your Facebook from Starbucks, think again. Coffee shops don't necessarily offer WiFi at all, or if they do, you'll have to pay by credit card. Broadband internet is not yet available in New Zealand, so the connection speeds are superslow, and internet companies charge by the megabite, so it's also expensive. Generally, you can expect to pay ten cents per megabite, or ten to twenty dollars per hour, for a connection speed of about 20 Mbps.

As someone who's grown up on the net, this situation makes me feel more isolated than ever. I normally download programs, television, films, and music as I desire them. I surf when I'm bored, checking out things that interest me on Wikipedia, or browsing for jobs, goods, or apartments on Craigslist. If I need to know how to get somewhere, I Google Map it, and if I want to get in touch with someone, I use Facebook. On a normal day at home, I use the internet at work, to order books, look up authors, e-mail customers, and keep on top of sales trends. Then I go home and use social networking web sites to look at what my family and friends are doing, what makes them laugh or what they find interesting. I might download a recently released album to play while I make dinner, or watch a digitally streamed television show. If I want to order in, I look at online menus before calling the number on the web site.

Here in New Zealand, it has taken us several months to download 1 GB of data.

Maybe we should just give up on being able to watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. But we are way too nerdy to give up.

In Blenheim, there is free WiFi available at the public library, so backpackers flock there in droves. You can't download anything, but you can browse web pages (slowly). On a given day, every seat in the library is occupied by a backpacker with a laptop. Me and John are two of them. We huddle around our little computer, looking for jobs, plane, train, and bus tickets, hostels, work-for-accomodation schemes - anything. Looking for a direction to go next.

We stumble across the following ad on the New Zealand Backpacker's Board:

Wwoofing opportunity: Tonga (South Pacific).
Looking for 2 people to help with gardening, cleaning, etc. in exchange for food and accomodation.
1-2 week stay or longer.
Please e-mail with inquiries.

We look at each other for a moment before I pull the computer over and type a response, introducing ourselves and asking for more information. A flight to Tonga is $200.

Interesting.

We let that idea sit, and address more pressing concerns. We want to spend the weekend at Donelle's, so I can get my fill of her before we head elsewhere. I really want to meet the rest of my family, who live in Westport, before heading south to ride the train over Arthur's pass. Afterward, we will probably fly from Christchurch to Wellington - or Tonga.

Packing

One of the best things about traveling, something I would never have experienced if not for this trip, is the feeling you get when you're packed. Oh sure, packing itself is a chore. But I don't have much with me, and it only takes an hour.

When everything I own is zipped into a backpack, all organized and small: there is something phenomenal about that. The simplicity of life is very apparant.

There are only three posessions I really care about: my wallet, my camera, and my iPod. Everything else is less important. I could live without it, or if I lose it, it's easily replaceable.  I usually carry one or two books, some writing materials, and then other essentials: sweater, jacket, touque, two pairs of jeans, one pair of shorts, seven shirts, one cotton dress. I also carry a towel, a pillow case, and some powder laundry soap in a little ziplock bag. I use the pillow case as a stuff-sack and sleep on my dirty laundry if I'm not in a hostel. In a ziplock bag I carry my underwear, socks, bathing suit and sports bra; in another ziplock I carry my toiletries: soap, shampoo, deoderant, toothpaste, toothbrush, hairbrush, razor... nail clippers, mascara, band-aids, and ibuprophen.

That's it. Everything I own. Everything I need.

Sometimes I miss my other clothes, my eyeliner, books, art supplies... in a way, I miss my bed and my pillows, you know, my comfy chair. The dishes I bought in Chinatown. It's silly, but those things made me feel at home.

It's so worthwhile to own almost nothing, but at the same time, I will be happy to come home to my stuff.

The Worst Birthday Ever

The day I turned 27 began like any other. The alarm came from the dark, waking me to another working day.

I hoped I would receive special treatment at work, like being able to pick my station, say. After all, it was my birthday. Sure, I'd be spending it working in a factory for twelve hours, but still, a birthday should be special.

The first thing that went wrong was that I forgot the cake. I had bought a birthday cake to share with my co-workers, since I didn't have the energy to make cupcakes, and they had been bugging me about wanting some. But I left it on the counter, and only remembered in the van.

But the worst thing that happened began with a rumour. Emma, the night shift supervisor, let us know she'd heard something about layoffs the following week. Since we were casual staff, our jobs would be toast.

I felt a weight in the pit of my stomach. How would we get to Asia now?

Great. No cake, and worse, my job in jeopardy. Still, my co-workers wished me Happy Birthday, and we started our day by labeling boxes. Unfortunately, once production started, it was my job to watch the boxes go by and make sure they were straight. Facing a wall, too, so there was nothing else to look at. Woohoo.

To be fair, I had the option to do the Dividers, but these were six-packs, which means that you have to fold up the dividers by hand, and the boxes come out six at a time, instead of three. Flipping, folding and filling six dividers every twenty seconds - which I had never done alone - did not seem like a good idea to me. So I swapped with Tina.

I heard Pam coming like the wrath of God.

The woman yells so much that no one listens to her anymore. Plus, she hardly ever says anything important, and she is always angry. Her voice is like that piercing alarm at McDonald's, so constant that the employees can't even hear it.

With acid sweetness, she told me if I was so useless that I couldn't do six-pack dividers by myself, I could kiss my job good-bye.

Gulp.

I guessed that I had better give it a try. Tina gave me an encouraging little squeeze on the shoulder before stepping down.

At first I was all right, too. For a good minute or two, I flipped and folded like a pro, and I felt pretty safe because Tina had left me a little cache-pile of pre-folded dividers in case anything went wrong. But I was feeling pretty upset about the whole situation, and Robson, a supervisor from Brazil, noticed something in my expression and came to ask me if I was okay.

Things got pretty hairy after that.

I can normally talk and walk at the same time, as it were, but little things kept adding up. A divider would get stuck and I'd pause the belt for a second, but that would make the next load of boxes come all the sooner. Too soon, I had to use Tina's cache-pile, but when I reached for it, the tower fell over and the dividers scattered all over the floor, like a house of cards collapsing. Robson shouted advice and folded me some more, which I must say, didn't look too good, since I was supposed to be proving that I could do it alone. The more the boxes backed up, the more weight on the first box, making it impossible to turn and slide into the next machine.

When the boxes started backing up all the way to John's station, Pam cut me off.

I could feel my chin start to tremble, and tears glassing over my eyes as I went back to watching boxes.

I was useless. I had cost us our plans to visit Asia.

It turned out that, out of the 12 backpackers employed at the factory, the management had decided to keep two. Pam had already given one of the jobs to my flat-mate Al, and in the end, she offered the other one to John. Out of loyalty to me he politely told her to stuff it. The truth was, I was going to be laid off regardless of whether I could do six-pack dividers or not. Besides, we couldn't afford to live on one income.

After work, John took me out for dinner to cheer me up. We ate Indian food and had some laughs, and didn't get home to bed until half-ten.

On the bedside table, John had left a little wrapped box containing a beautiful greenstone necklace, carved to look like a fern frond, and a matching pair of greenstone studs. (Greenstone is New Zealand jade, very sacred to the Maoris. Traditionally, greenstone is a gift, never bought for oneself, but always given to loved ones.)

I was feeling better until I had to get up for work.

On Saturday, our last day, I watched boxes go by for five or six hours, and did Dividers for the rest of the day. Saying goodbye to everyone was a little sad, but in retrospect, they are probably used to backpackers coming and going. I don't imagine they'll give it much of a thought.

We had planned to celebrate my birthday with some friends after work, a dress-up dinner. I was excited: I dearly needed a laugh. I put a dress on, and walked to the Lemon Tree, where the girls were getting ready. It might have been a mistake to wear my new shoes, which gave me terrible blisters - by the time I finally arrived, the left heel was soaked in blood, and it was nearly 7:00. John and the boys were going to meet us at the restaurant at 8:00.

By 7:30, Tina was still in the shower, and Lindsay was heating up the curling iron to do my hair.

At ten past eight, I texted John to let him know we were on our way - which was mostly true. We were just waiting for Tina, whose hair was finally finished.

She kept insisting that we go without her, but I couldn't leave her - then she'd have to walk by herself, and if Lindsay stayed, well, I didn't want to walk by myself either. So we stayed.

In the end, Tomas and Nicolas walked me to town. Tina was still getting ready, and Lindsay had disappeared to do laundry. It was probably 8:30. I felt a little bad. I hoped they were having a good time at the restaurant. By the time they called, I said we really were on our way and I'd be there soon. But even Rodolphe seemed a little mad.

At ten to nine, I finally arrived, very late to my own party. John gave me the finger the whole time I crossed the room, not even looking at me. I thought that was a little harsh, but I guess he did have to wait for about an hour.

It turned out that the restaurant was completely out of food. Apparantly there was this big function earlier in the day and they'd been cleaned out. All they had was fries.

Everyone was starving and pissed off.

I ordered a drink, feeling chagrined.

Tim doesn't drink, so he took off, saying it was a bit of a disaster, but he hoped we could have a real dinner sometime before everyone left town. Tina and Lindsay arrived by 9:30 or so, but after ten minutes, they said they'd like to leave because it was "too French" for them. Apparantly they had been fighting with Tomas and Nicolas, and there had been some insults that I had missed. In the end, Tomas and Nicolas took off in a bit of a huff. I felt confused. Then Lindsay and Tina left to go to McDonald's - if they were going to eat fries, they'd eat cheap fries.

Rodolphe, Xavier, and John decided to head back to our flat. If they were going to drink, they didn't want to spend a fortune doing it.

My party had disintegrated in all of ten minutes. I followed them out.

I was absolutely freezing. It was somewhere between zero and two degrees, and all I had on was a dress and a light cardigan. After a few blocks, I could hardly feel my toes. I kept looking around for a taxi, and after awhile I noticed that the boys were half a block ahead of me.

So, this is what it came to. No job, no friends, no jacket. Walking alone after all.

Rodolphe came back and offered me his sweater, and I burst into tears. When you are feeling sorry for yourself, someone's kindness can be like a trigger.

"Because you are cold," he said, "it is not why you are crying. So? What's wrong?"

"It's ruined," I gulped, "my birthday, and, I lost my job, and now, I don't know what we'll do, and everyone's angry with each other, and John is angry with me, and I haven't eaten, and I'm cold, and... and I'm just... tired." I took a deep breath.

When we got home, I changed into warmer clothes and got into bed. I put my feet near the heater.

Rodolphe knocked, then came in and sat on the bed, trying to cheer me up.

He told me he's decided to go back to France.

I told him he's my favourite person I've met in New Zealand, and I realized it was true. I'll miss him.

This morning, I woke early. I wanted to watch a movie, but Daniel was asleep on the couch, so instead I showered and got dressed and packed up our computer.

Today it is very sunny and cold. On the way to town, the world was so quiet. I could hear my hair blowing against my jacket, making a sound like pine needles falling against a tent. As I crossed the bridge, I heard the clock tower toll the hour, accompanied by a rush of wings as the pigeons took flight. The sounds seem to echo in the emptiness.

I feel emptied out and alone.

I wonder what we'll do next. Maybe I should be looking for jobs, but I feel too exhausted.

I've had the worst birthday ever, but I am starting to feel better now.

This is a fresh start. We have come out ahead, in the end. Maybe our plans have been put on hold, and maybe we won't get to Asia after all, but at least we have saved up some money, had some interesting experiences, and met some great people.

I can't wait to pack up my things and get on the bus again. A change of scenery sounds very nice at the moment. I haven't seen the ocean for months.

I have asked John to decide for us where we will go, what our plan will be, and I think he understands. I just want to be a passenger for awhile, have a break from worrying about the future.

Yes, I am ready to go - I am willing to go anywhere.

I'll wait and see what the next week brings.